Darkest Hours
by fiesa
Summary: What is better: Loving you enough to stay behind, or loving you enough to go with you, wherever that might be? OneShot- All characters, at some point. (Clarines goes to war.)


**Darkest Hours**

 _Summary: What is better: Loving you enough to stay behind, or loving you enough to go with you, wherever that might be? OneShot- All characters, at some point. (Clarines goes to war.)_

 _Warning: darkness, angst. Nothing graphic, but definitely A Lot of Angst._

 _Set: future-fic._

 _Disclaimer: Standards apply._

 _A/N: I haven't been writing much lately - I haven't had much time. The time I had, I am still spending on a series of oneshots for a weird Netflix series called Voltron - Legendary Defender. But this was still on my Finished Works List._

 _It's different. It's too dark. It's established relationship - I haven't had many of those for my favorite pairing (Kiki/Mitsuhide) yet, I think. And I don't want to continue in this dark, angsty vein, but currently that's what I've got :) Maybe you'll enjoy it._

* * *

 **i.**

She is clinging to him like she is drowning.

Her head is buried in his chest, her arms wrap around him with surprising strength. And she is crying. He can feel her fragile shoulders shake, her entire form heaves with the strength of her sobs; like it is too much for her small stature. Like her world is shattering and he is the last fixture in it. She clings to him with a ferocity that, too obviously, translates how desperately she believes that he can save her.

Save everyone and everything.

Which he cannot.

 _Is that not your job?_

It is, but he cannot do anything. He is as helpless as she is, perhaps even more. The knowledge breaks him, every time.

Still, despite her heaving shoulders and her small fists clenched in his tunic, no sound escapes her lips. Mitsuhide Rouen looks down on the familiar, silver-blond hair and cannot swallow past the lump of love in his throat.

"Please don't leave, Daddy."

Emma is a mirror of her mother. Sweet, composed and calm; she seldom cries and never throws a tantrum. As an infant, she was so docile his mother worried, _it's not natural, son_. (But Mother's voice had always been soft when she said it, adoration for her youngest grandchild stark in her eyes, and her hands on her son's head had been firm and gentle as ever.) And Emma smiled, softly, and quietly played on the ground in his office while Mitsuhide worked, and watched him with large, grey eyes that were the only thing differentiating her from her mother, grew into her second and fifth and eight year. And she still is that way: calm, quiet, always curious. Always unobtrusive, always listening. Able to spend hours and hours in front of the fire, reading or playing with her dolls, and when she picks up a wooden practice sword, her eyes glow. She is so much like her mother it sets him on awe. She makes him smile. She makes him laugh, and marvel, and love her with fierce abandon. Her sweet laughter rings out through the manor, light and clear, and Mitsuhide cannot see anything of himself in his daughter.

"Emma, love."

He still loves the way their names roll over his tongue. _Katherine. Emma._

"I have to go. You know that, right?"

She shakes her head vehemently, her face still hidden. Then nods. Then shakes it again, her silent tears soaking his shirt. When she finally speaks, her voice is tear-laden and so silent he barely hears it.

"But maybe you won't come back."

There are different things he can do now. Promise: _I'll always come back to you._ Lie: _I'm sure nothing will happen._ Deflect: _What did your mother tell you about this?_ Mitsuhide never shied away from the thorniest path, however, not when it came to her mother, not when it comes to Emma. He desperately wants to tell her that everything will be alright, that he will be back soon, that nothing will ever happen to her. But, just like her mother, she always _knows_. Some promises cannot - _should not_ \- be made.

(Sometimes, it takes everything he has to just _believe_ that it will be alright himself.)

"Maybe. But, love." He lifts her up – she's still small and light, so much like her mother – and looks at her, and she answers his gaze, tear-streaked but unwavering. "I will do anything that is in my power to protect the Second Prince. You know I take my vow seriously, do you?"

She nods, and sniffs.

"In the same way, I'll do anything in my power to come back. I promise."

His daughter wraps her arms around his neck and clings to him, hard, and Mitsuhide holds her until she falls asleep, reveling in the precious, precious shape in his arms. Vowing, silently, to do anything in his power to not let her grow up without a father, like Zen did.

* * *

 **ii.**

"What are you doing?"

Her fingers continue, methodically, to check the soft, well-worn leather that runs through her hands. No tear escapes her sharp gaze, no rough patch, no weakness. Both Enigma's – she will never understand her husband's penchant for strange horse names – and her own mare's saddles and bridles are in top condition. There is nothing for her to do, technically, because of course they have employees who take care of these things. But some things Katherine Seiran taught herself, and some things she needs to do herself in order to make sure they are done correctly. Also, some things she needs to do in order to calm herself, and this is one of those things.

"Preparing," she says, without turning around. She knows her father's step and voice, maybe even felt him before he entered the stables.

"Preparing for what?"

Lord Seiran has aged. His once dark hair is shot through with grey, these days, meticulously swept up in a tight braid. His stature is slightly bent, his back giving him pains on bad days, but his step is still measured and self-confident and his shoulders as broad as ever. It is still the same man that expected her to be able to swing a sword and to read and interpret the law at the same time, who always asked more of her than she seemed able to give and sometimes managed to draw it out of her and sometimes not. Still the same man that refused to hold her when her mother died and who sat at her bed every night, never once entering while she was awake but silently guarding her sleep.

He is still her father, and she still loves him with the same complex emotions she always harbored for him.

So she can read him, and she knows where they are going from here. She goes, regardless, because that is what she has always done. This is what he has always done, as well.

They are alike, in so many visible and invisible ways.

"For departure."

He walks up and stops next to her, watches her take Mitsuhide's sword belt and inspect it millimeter by millimeter. His face gives away nothing.

"That's not only your husband's gear."

"No."

Her father is silent for a while. Katherine finishes inspecting the sword belt and switches over to the armor itself. A chest plate, the arm and leg plates. The heavy undergarments out of tanned leather. Hers lie in a heap to her right, waiting.

"Katherine." Her father sounds like he is weary already, but not like he is resigning. Resignation is not something a Seiran is born with. "You cannot be thinking of going with him."

"Why not?" She asks back, her eyes firmly fixed on her task.

"I will not say because you are a woman. You and I both know that women are stronger than men, sometimes, and that what you cannot weigh in brute strength you have more than enough in cunning and strategy. But this is not a skirmish, not a border patrol. This is a _war_ , initiated and fought by men. You cannot fight on the battlefield like your husband. Like a common soldier."

"He's not a common soldier," she returns, measured and yet sharp. "He is the commander of the Second Prince's Guard."

"He is a man," her father answers, equally sharp. "He is a _soldier_. You are not. You are the head of the Seiran family, a lady, a figurehead. You cannot risk yourself going out there. "

She chooses to ignore the end of his sentence. "I am his wife."

"You cannot be serious." Her father sounds disbelieving, almost shocked. "You cannot ride with him."

"Why not? There was a time when I was part of the Second Prince's guard, as well."

"That was different!"

"How so?"

"This is not a simple dispute between smuggler factions or noble houses anymore, Katherine. Nothing you might have dealt with when you were Prince Zen's Second Sword can ever come close to this."

Katherine feels her chin jut out in defiance, and hates herself. She is Lady Seiran. She does not have to explain herself to anyone, not even to her father, the former Lord. Yet, in his face, she is again a girl of sixteen, stubborn and silly. A girl that might have the right arguments, but voices the wrong ones. "My place is with my husband."

Her father straightens, looming over her. "Have you thought of the possibility that you could be _injured_?"

"Of course I have. I could be injured just standing here _,_ Father."

"That is not the same thing, and you know it. Do not make a fool of yourself, Katherine. Your place is here, not in the middle of a civil war caused by power-hungry noble families. You are Lady Seiran!"

Katherine has learned to recognize the vulnerability under his hard words. She softens her voice, but she does not back down. Clenches her fists, because this hurts, regardless.

"I am not the last of the family, Father. You have ruled without me, once. You can do so again, until Em–" Her daughter's name is like a stab to the chest. She hesitates. "Until someone else can take my place." It is no more than a second, the fraction of a heartbeat. But it is a fraction too much. Her father knows her, knows her too well, and he pounces like the experienced fighter he is: lethal, precise. Going in for the kill without an ounce of hesitation.

"You are not only a wife, Katherine, or the head of our family. You are a mother, as well. Are you going to abandon your child?"

A sword to her throat, a dagger to her heart. No way to shield herself, because she is already open and raw and helpless. A voice inside her, silenced for eight precious years, pipes up again. _This is why you never wanted children._ The ugly truth, the part of her heart she thought she had won over. Turns out that the past is never buried and dead.

Katherine can feel her fingers tremble; feels the darkness taking over.

Feels the words in her throat like splinters of iron, embedding herself into her and trying to escape, to bury themselves in soft flesh, to rend, to tear. Feels the poisonous words on the tip of her tongue.

 _I never wanted this for me. I only did it for you. How dare you?_

She thought she had left her behind. The angry girl, the spiteful girl, the one that took anything offered to her and warped it and tore through it and sent it back in hurtful, piercing, twisted renditions of their former good intention. Thought that girl had died long ago - or, at least, had _changed._ Changed because of kind words and understanding eyes, _if you only have yourself to rely on right now,_ because of a hand stretched out: strong fingers wrapped around a scratched and worn sword, _let me protect you._ Changed into a girl that had learned to trust, to _believe_. To understand. She had thought -

 _In the entire Kingdom of Clarines, there is nobody I trust as much as I trust Knight Kiki Seiran._

She can hear him, clear as a day. As if he is standing right in front of her: like he did that day. Smiling at her with that small, deprecating twist of his lips. She can see his eyes - grey, storm-grey, looking at Emma, sometimes, is like looking at him - and everything else fades away.

The angry, young girl is not dead. But she did not disappear, either: she is still here, with Katherine, will forever be. And that is the way it is supposed to be.

 _You are one of the pieces that makes me whole._

"We are not abandoning Emma, and she knows that. You know, too."

Her father is silent.

Katherine, with suddenly steady fingers, inspect the next piece of armor. This time, it is hers.

Her father is quiet for a long time. Until: "Do not make a mistake, Katherine."

His voice is pleading, close to breaking. He loves her, too, in his own way. She knows that. It is one of the things Zen and Mitsuhide taught her, as well.

"I am not." She lifts her face, smiles at him. Sees his pain in his eyes. "Even if something happens to us, Emma will not be alone. You will take care of her. And because she is there, you will not be alone, either."

 _Emma._

Her daughter. Her beloved, beloved child.

The emotions in his eyes flare. "Leaving your child and your family for a war we neither started nor should condone is a mistake."

Her father turns and leaves the stables, his anger and fear – for her – remaining. Almost palpable, they drift through the air, making her choke on them.

"He will not let you come with him, anyway." Convinced. Final.

The door closes, and Katherine stays behind, slowly suffocating.

Neither of them wanted this. The Seiran did not want war. The Second Prince's Guard did not. Her father did not, Prince Zen did not, not even King Izana did. Clarines never had wanted war. But sometimes, what one wants and what one is forced to is not the same.

Katherine closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, and feels Enigma brush his nose against her shaking fist. Temperance, her own horse, whinnies jealously, and she almost smiles as she buries her face in the soft, warm mane.

"Tell me I am doing the right thing."

The horses, of course, do nothing of that sort.

* * *

 **iii.**

"So this is what you're finally leaving me for."

 _I always knew you could never be mine._

The unsaid words are unexpected, make him freeze momentarily. He forces himself to unfreeze violently and turns to face her, standing in the door so still.

She has been standing there for a while already.

He knows, because he knows her steps. Knows the way she moves and walks better than he knows himself. Knows the quiet, unobtrusive and yet all-overpowering sensation of her presence; has since the first day they met in a snowy plaza, icy sleet falling all around him and freezing his heart further, all those years ago. It was not then that he fell in love with her; he had not known her then, had not drawn any connection between the girl in the square and the daughter of Lyrias' governor mentioned over state dinner at the Governor's mansion. It is still there, the memory of a breath catching in his throat, a tremor passing through his entire body: her face on one of the papers that flowed over his desk daily, a mass of requests, pleas, of favors asked. There were so many more of these faces: all potential matches for the future king of Clarines; all well-educated and beautiful girls, all possible queens. It was not love at first sight, neither in the square nor at the sight of her portrait. Merely recognition, a sudden connection drawn in his mind. And: _memories._ The almost-forgotten impossibility of her smile, soft and sweet, her cold hands as she wrapped her scarf around his neck. The incredulity in her voice.

 _But surely you have seen snow before?_

She will never know how much she saved of him that day, how her simple kindness warmed him from the inside, gave him the strength to continue on. How her soft touch had soothed something raw and broken within him. She could not mend him - the king dead by weeks, an almost-coup by the noble families on the queen's hands, and, caught in between: the crown prince, lost and desperate - of course she could not. But she was there when he needed it.

He fell in love with her much, much later, perhaps even after their wedding. Somewhere along the road. Somewhere between _I will take my leave_ and _Stay._ Somewhere between _I am so sorry_ and _I am here because I want to_ , somewhere between _I love you_ and _I know_. Somewhere along the way, he has fallen in love with Haki Allurion; somehow, she has become his heart and his soul. His last thought before falling asleep and his first glance in the morning. He has been quietly watching her for years now; through their engagement, their wedding, through the birth of three children – the twins are training as pages in Celeg, thankfully far away from the border and too young to be involved in this damn mess, and Corian is still fast asleep – and through the steady rise and fall of his days. It strikes him like it does every time he looks at her:

Haki is beautiful.

She also never realized, and never cared. She is strong, his wife, queen of Clarines, she is strong and soft at the same time, she bends - but she never breaks. She has born him three heirs and has supported him every step of the way, and never once has she shown doubt or hesitation. Not in her path, not in her life - not in him.

The vulnerability in her tone - hidden away so carefully and yet peeking through - goes through him like a knife.

Izana has been crown prince since he can remember, and king for many years now. He has seen everything there is to see, has dealt with every possible situation imaginable. But he has never seen his wife so small, and it chokes him. He does not know what to say, especially since none of her doubts had been uttered out loud. Is he imagining things?

He leans back in his chair. "Good evening, My Queen. What brings you here?"

She straightens, and he regrets his words immediately. So he did not imagine it.

Haki steps forward. The door closes behind her, leaving the well-meaning but curious ears of both her and his sword outside. But she does not step closer.

"Are you really planning to resolve this conflict by force, My King?"

Haki grew up with her father and her brother as closest family. She knows more about strategy and battles than any other woman Izana knows, perhaps the wife of his brother's commander of the guard exempted. She also knows he knows this. And not because he is familiar with her family history but because they have discussed this, hours and hours, night after night. Have gone over their options again and again and _again_ until Izana could see them in his waking dreams, and he knows Haki does, too.

Usually, he would meet her; they have been playing this game for so long it feels like an old friend and his greatest adversary at the same time. Usually, she would meet him, too, stride for stride, it is what they have been doing since they became engaged to each other. But it is different, today. Out there, there is a war looming that both of them never wanted and both of them loathe. There are promises to be broken in the future; promises to lovers and mothers and soldiers. There is a suffocating silence hanging over the castle these days because here is the person who is ordering soldiers to their deaths, but not those within his castle's walls, and Izana – Izana is tired. He feels old and worn and exhausted, and suddenly, Haki seems so, so far away despite having been his closest confidante in the past years. She is so far away something in his chest aches; he cannot act as he usually does; cannot bring it over himself. His voice is supposed to be soft but it comes out scratchy and halting. He thinks he knows the answer, but the question must be asked.

"What is worrying you, Haki?"

She deflates almost visibly, her shoulders sinking into herself and her arms coming up to wrap around her. She never was tall, but that way, she looks even smaller.

"You need to resolve this fight before it comes to the worst, Izana."

"How?" He gets up, unable to sit any longer, and walks towards her. He wants to wrap her in his arms, hold her, but something stops him. His frustration is hers, alive and building up between them like an insurmountable, impenetrable wall. "You know as well as I do that there's no other way."

"Propose an alliance."

"With whom? The Yeletanans want to rule the entire continent and on the whole of Fortisia. Clarines is the only country that has enough military strength to rally the last countries remaining out of their grasp to counter them. We need to stop them. They want total control and they will not stop until it is in their hand. They will want to bind us to them. And you know Zen will not marry their crown princess."

Where do you go when any approach at negotiation fails? How do you negotiate if the other side refuses to compromise?

 _There are things you can have, but you cannot keep._

So war it is even though he hates it, even though he would do anything to protect his country from its devastation. _At one point you have to decide_ , a voice whispers in his mind that sounds like his mother and his father at the same time. _At one point, you have to sacrifice one thing to protect another_ -

"So you do it."

"I do –" He breaks off, aghast. " _I do it_? You want me to marry Evadne Yeletana? Are you insane?"

She just looks at him, the same stubborn determination in his eyes that made him think that she was the right person to marry. The calm strength that made him hold on to their engagement even when she was injured by an assassin. This same determination makes him bristle, today, and he advances on her, fury rising.

"You are aware that I am already married."

She shrugs, wanting to appear unconcerned, but the way she grips her elbows is telling. Usually, she does not let herself go to this point, but they are both too exhausted to uphold appearances.

"Kings have divorced their wives in the past. And you would make sure the kids and I are taken care of. We could go back to Lyrias–"

Her hand comes up to gesture vaguely, it is a familiar movement, achingly so, and Izana's hand shoots forward without him being able to stop it and grabs her wrist.

"I am married to _you_. I will _not_ have our marriage annulled so some other king can plant his poisonous roots in _my country_ by _marrying his daughter to me and replacing my wife_."

There are a multitude of emotions warring on her face; flashing past him too fast to see them clearly. Her voice is calm.

"It would buy us some time."

"No."

A flash of desperation in her icy, blue eyes. "By avoiding a direct confrontation, we would save _lives._ "

"No."

"You have to think of Clarines, of her people. This is not something that we can just bat away. Even if we win the battle there will be _hundreds_ of dead, we could avoid all of that."

"Izana-"

" _No._ " Her wrist. Was it always that thin? " _Listen to me._ I am _not_ divorcing you. You are this country's ruler. You are the mother of my sons. You are _my_ _queen._ Do you understand?"

Her face is tired. There are lines in it that were not there when he married her, all these years ago, crow's feet around the corners of her eyes. But her eyes are blue and large and full of sadness, and beautiful, _oh-so-beautiful,_ and Izana never loved anyone in his life more than he loves her. And maybe that is a dangerous thought for a king, but if he learned something from his brother then it is that a king who does not love will not act like a true king, and will never be able to be one.

He kisses her.

Surprise makes her stumble backwards, her back hits the wall but he softens her impact with his hands; her shoulder blades are sharp and pointed under the material of her dress. A raw sound escapes her throat and then she kisses him back, her hands coming up to clutch at his shoulders.

"I love you," she whispers, in between frantic kisses. "Izana. I love you."

 _Enough to step aside. Enough to let you go._

He hears all those words, the unspoken ones. He counters with his own heart.

 _I love you too much to let you go._

Her lips are dry, soft and warm. Haki's arms twine around him as he draw her closer, _closer_ , it is not enough, _not enough._ It feels like it is the last time, like he is leaving tomorrow to fight and die even though he, of course, will not. He is the king, after all. It feels like Lyrias' ice and Clarines' ocean, colliding, elements of nature: unbreakable, inescapable. Izana buries his hands in Haki's hair, disregarding the many pins and needles until it drops onto her shoulders in soft, messy waves, kisses her lips and her eyes and her hair and hears her soft, choked exhalation. Her arms relax, minutely, only to tighten again around his shoulders and he drops his head to her shoulder, his breathing shallow. She makes a soft sound, a sigh of protest. It is like a punch to the gut, still, after all these years: that this woman decided to give him her heart. That she never asked for him to return it, no matter how hard it is being the queen, being married to a king. That she still sways like that when he kisses her. But then, her body turns from frantic and desperate to soothing, calming; her hands no longer desperately holding on to him as if he is the only safehold in a stormy sea but holding him, instead.

Her voice is just barely audible.

"Thank you for loving me, too."

* * *

 **iv.**

Shirayuki is in the greenhouses.

 _Of course_ she is.

"You smile looks weird. Are you thinking dirty thoughts again, Master?"

Zen is thrown out of his reverie brutally, landing on the ground of reality with a sound he is sure must have been audible to the entire castle. Obi blinks at him, innocently, and the Second Prince of Clarines, Protector of the North, Ruler of Castle Wilant and Commander of Clarines' army, blushes and blusters.

"What – I – _how in the name of everything that is Holy_ – Obi!"

Oh, he is _so_ glad the shinobi at least learned to hold back his stupid jokes around other people.

"I should probably warn the Lady," Zen's aide continues and then trails off suggestively, one eye brow disappearing in his black mop of hair. Zen levels his coldest glance at him but is pretty sure the shinobi could not care less. After all, it has never worked in the past. He and Mitsuhide are getting more and more alike; they both seem to have the same stupid, aggravating humor.

 _Mitsuhide._

Sometimes, it still hits him; when he turns around to tell his sword something, to share a joke, to make one at Mitsuhide's expense.

 _He is not there anymore._

Except that is not right, because Mitsuhide still is. Not behind Zen, not his quiet, unobtrusive shadow, his ever-present protector. But he is the commander of Zen's guard, now, and as such he is always close to Zen. _Not close enough_ , something in his mind whispers, and he shuts it down, smiling. Zen is not a lost, lonely boy anymore; he is an adult, he _has grown_ , he has Shirayuki and Obi still by his side and Mitsuhide is only a call away. He does not need someone to shadow him anymore. And Mitsuhide always had a knack for being just what Zen needed him to be.

Shirayuki had no small part in showing him this - and convincing him of its rightness.

Between the two of them, she always had the better understanding of human hearts.

Zen smiles at her sight, almost hidden behind the large, green leaves of something that resembles a palm tree but he is pretty sure is none. Shirayuki turns, alerted by his steps on the graveled path, and sees him, and her face breaks into a smile. She gets up from where she has been kneeling and stumbles as her legs refuse her first command, and then starts running; knocks into him with an impact that forces the air from his lungs and clings to him. Zen, at a loss at the strength of her response, wraps his arms around her to hold her.

"Are you alright, Shirayuki?"

She looks at him, her eyes swollen and red but smiling. "Welcome back."

"But I have not been…" He steps back to look at her more closely, concern flooding over him like a tidal wave. "Have you been _crying_?"

"What? Oh." She lifts her hands, drops them again. Smiles sheepishly. "I accidentally touched my eyes and got some pollen into them. Just a minor inflammation"

He probably should feel relief. But Zen's first reaction, when he sees Shirayuki hurt or anything, is overwhelming concern and a protectiveness that gets the better of him most of the time. He grabs her hand, wheels around on his heel and strides off, drawing her after him. "We're going to see the healer."

"Zen." She refuses to move. When he whirls around again, exasperated, ready to argue, she lifts a hand to his cheek. The warmth makes him freeze. "I am the head apothecary, remember? It is alright. You do not have to worry about me."

It is his turn to smile sheepishly. He sighs. "Sorry. I know you know what you are doing. I guess I am overreacting again."

Shirayuki laughs, the sound warming him to the core. Her hand is still on his cheek. "If it were the other way round, I would probably do the same." She drops her hand returns to her former workspace, picks up a small shovel and a basket. The loss has him reeling. "Are you free now?"

"Wha-?"

"Obi said you had some time now?" She clarifies, returning. She smells like earth and herbs and something light, distinctly _Shirayuki,_ and he cannot help but take a deep breath.

"Yes. The last meeting was cut short because the governor had to leave. I have some time until the formal dinner."

"Good."

There is a darkness looming over Wilant castle that makes it really difficult, but Zen feels his heart lighten at the satisfaction in her voice; at the brightness of her infectious smile.

"I made a cake. Let's go."

Obi winks at him from the door and falls back into the shadows, giving them privacy.

Zen's princess is by no means an extraordinary chef. But even if she had exchanged salt and sugar or elsewise misread the recipe: the knowledge that she prepared something for Zen alone would make anything special. She chats about her day and asks questions about his, and, at one point he relaxes enough to forget, for a brief, brief second, about the looming war. But at one point it comes up, impossible to cast aside completely, and Shirayuki suddenly falls silent, her gaze directed towards the window behind him. Zen takes a sip of tea and waits, watching her intently. The silence is comfortable. Finally, her gaze turns back to him, focuses on him with familiar intensity, and she smiles a somewhat self-deprecating smile.

"You know, I was jealous of the queen?"

Zen splutters into his tea cup because this, for sure, is _not_ what he imagined her thinking about. "What-" He swallows his incredulous question, closes his mouth again. Turns her words around and around, discards the first, obvious conclusion. Goes back to the beginning. "Of Queen Haki?"

"Oh, not because she is the queen!" Shirayuki, of course, realizes what her words must have seemed like to an outsider and blushes. "I would not want to be in her place for anything in the world, and also, King Izana – I mean – I do not – I mean I do not want to-"

Zen sets down his tea cup, covers his mouth and yet cannot suppress a chuckle. Because - well. She is so _adorable_ when she is flustered, is she not? At the same time, there is so much here he does not yet understand, so laughter cannot be the appropriate reaction.

"Why were you jealous, Shirayuki?" He asks instead, his voice as soft as possible.

She composes herself visibly and then steals a glimpse at him, finding him looking at her intently. She blushes again, furiously. "I mean. Queen Haki is married to the king. And His Majesty – he – he does not leave her to go to war."

The last words come out rushed, as if she is eager to say them because she wants to get them out. And Zen leans back, feeling like he has been punched to the gut.

"But!" Shirayuki says and grabs for his hand. "But then I realized that she has other things she sacrifices, things that are perfectly normal for me. For one, I can see you any day, anytime I like, right? And that counts for something. And King Izana could – he could die any day, too. But. It just feels unfair, you know? You are leaving tomorrow, you are going to fight in a war and I cannot go with you, I can only wait here until you return, there is nothing I can do to help you and maybe you–"

And that is where she stops, her expression suddenly closed up, her eyes terrified and unblinking. It is more than Zen can take: the depth of her love, her fear for him that still does not get in the way of his freedom and duty. The way she _understands_ him. Once upon a time he wondered whether he would ever find a woman who loved him for what he is, not for what he has. At one point, though, he had to accept that maybe _love_ would not be enough but that there had to be _more_. He had never been able to define it. But whatever it is, Shirayuki gives him everything, she _is everything_ to him in a way he never would have imagined. Seeing her so concerned, so afraid for him makes him love her only more. But though _Zen_ loves her - he is not only _Zen_ , not only Shirayuki's husband. He is...

Zen Skye Wistalia, Second Prince of Clarines, Protector of the North, Ruler of Wilant, stands, almost toppling over his chair, drops down next to Shirayuki and pulls her into an embrace.

"I am so sorry," he whispers into her hair. "I am sorry, 'Yuki. I wish I was not the Second Prince, but I am. I have to go. My brother needs me."

 _Clarines needs me,_ he wants to say, but somehow that feels like a lie. It is his brother whose army he leads, and his brother for whom he fights. Blaming a country and its people for a war neither one of them wants feels like an excuse, or even worse: a betrayal. And his – their – failure to keep the peace already is the ultimate act of betrayal: he cannot add more to it than that.

It just breaks his heart that his decisions are pushed onto his wife like that.

"I'm so, so sorry-"

"No."

Her voice is firm. "Zen, do not apologize. I knew this would happen when I married you, did I not? You asked me to walk this path with you and I agreed, and I agreed to take on and share any burden that would be placed on you, as well. I am sorry, too. That I cannot be with you like I promised."

They are kneeling on the ground now, and Zen takes her face in his hands and looks at her, commits every line, every emotion, to memory.

 _Always. I will be there, always._

She _said_ it, all those years ago. She _said it._ It had been her vow, when they got married, he remembers how her eyes shone as she delivered hers, remembers her and nothing and nobody else. The brightness of her eyes, the way her dress had felt under his hands. The softness of her hand when she took his. How could he have forgotten?

His eyes meet hers. She is so close he can see himself mirrored in her eyes.

"You are too good for me, Shirayuki. I do not deserve you."

He must look like he is close to tears – he knows he is – but as usual, she is far stronger than him. She laughs.

"Nonsense. We deserve each other. In the best possible ways."

She makes him laugh, too, she always does. He stands again, reaching down to help her up, and makes sure she sits again comfortably before walking around their table to sit himself.

"So," Shirayuki says. "Did Obi tell you about the wife of Governor Rictas?"

And Zen smiles, and shakes his head, and determinedly drops all dark thoughts. _Just for this moment._ They do not talk about the war that is to start anymore, about the missives that reach Wilant from Lyrias, Wistalia and all the other countries that are uniting against Yeletanan. They do not talk about the fact that the Palace Guard is ready to march at a moment's notice, only waiting for the return of their commander, and that Zen is leaving with them as soon as Mitsuhide arrives. They do not talk about the darkness in front of their windows but focus on each other, instead.

And later that night, they do not talk at all.

It is always Shirayuki who holds him, Shirayuki, whose arms stop him from falling apart time and again. Shirayuki who gives him the strength to face the next day, and every day after that.

In return, Zen loves her.

* * *

 **v.**

The mornings in the Eastern Plains are still freezing cold.

Mitsuhide takes a deep breath as he steps outside, feeling the cold air like a slap in his face. His page is already waiting, holding Enigma, saddled and ready. The boy's lips are blue.

Mitsuhide lobs a thermos at him and tries to muster a smile of reassurance. He cannot say how well he succeeds, but the boy loses his tense, frightened expression for a moment. It is replaced by a grateful smile.

"Warm up. We're leaving in five."

The page is just a boy, barely sixteen. And he, like all of them, is caught at the brink of a war that might kill them all if they do not kill their opponents first. This child might die with a spear through his chest, he might bleed out from a sword strike to the guts. He might survive the battle but come back disabled and traumatized. And he is not the only one: in the King's Army there are a thousand of such boys, men and soldiers, and everyone has someone who cares for them, everybody has someone waiting for them to return. And some just might not.

Mitsuhide spent part of the night holding his sleeping daughter. His arms feel painfully empty without Emma's warmth and weight.

He kneels to check Enigma's cinch and hooves and does not turn his head.

"Kiki."

She does not acknowledge him, does not move. She could be a ghost, for all it matters. But when he gets up again there she is; wearing light traveling armor and a heavy cloak, her sword at her side, her hair wrapped around her head tightly in a silver crown. She is leading Temperance, her mare, and the horse is as eager to leave as Enigma is.

Mitsuhide closes his eyes, resisting the urge to reach out with everything he has, and turns around to where he knows his temporary second-in-command is instead. "Marcus. Ready the men."

The knight nods, salutes and turns sharply to follow his orders.

And then it is only them, Mitsuhide and Kiki, standing in the icy pre-dawn of a morning on Evergreen Manor, the Seiran mansion on the Eastern Plains of Clarines.

 _Stop stalling_ , her eyes say. But there is something else in her face, something foreign. Something he never thought he would see. And it scares him. Mitsuhide feels himself shaking his head even before she says a word.

She chuckles, without any humor.

"My father said you would not let me come."

Kiki's face is impassive, her voice equally. And _yet_. Mitsuhide knows her, has known her for longer than he cares to remember. He notices the slight hitch in her voice, the flash of insecurity in her eyes.

He takes off his sword belt, fastens it to Enigma's saddle. Speaks without turning back towards her. "I know I cannot stop you from doing what you have to do."

She is still looking at him when he turns back, so still it would have scared him, years ago. Something is wrong, he can feel it, so he does what he always does.

His hand goes to the back of his head automatically.

"I am a bit surprised, you know. I expected your father to jump with joy at the prospect of me leaving, but he was very quiet when I last talked to him. He might be losing his edge a little bit, what do you think? Maybe, one day, he will even call me by my name–"

 _"Mitsuhide."_

Suddenly, her eyes are furious, and his name snaps out so sharply he almost steps back.

"Stop joking to make me feel at ease," she spits at him. "It is always the same with you! You only think about other people. For the love of the Gods, for once, just think of yourself, will you? You are facing a god-damn _war._ Are you not afraid of what could happen _to you_?!"

He is at a loss, his mouth opening, closing, opening again, because whatever he expected, it is not _this_. "Kiki-"

"You are about to go into _battle._ You could be badly injured, you could _die,_ for Heaven's sake! And you are just standing there, _joking!_ "

"Kiki-"

"I am not staying behind when you are going to war." She cuts him off, and suddenly her eyes are wide and _terrified_. " _No._ Mitsuhide, I am not letting you go out there without me. _Wherever you go, I will go, too._ Remember? We _promised._ My father thinks that I am making a mistake, leaving with you."She takes a deep breath and her shoulders slump hunch; she looks so small, so vulnerable. The words pour out of her like a torrent that has been unleashed, a dam broken somewhere within her. "He says the head of the family needs to stay here. He says Emma needs me to stay, that this is wrong, that I am, that our daughter cannot lose both her parents at once. And he is right, I know. I just–"

"Kiki." Mitsuhide takes a step forwards, lifts his hand as if to touch her face, but she shrinks back.

She is still looking at him, but she does not seem to see him anymore. Her gaze is focused on something distant, the future, perhaps.

"I am a horrible parent, I know. I am ready to leave my eight-year-old daughter behind to go to war. What kind of mother does this?"

"Kiki–"

"What is better, what do you think: Loving you enough to stay behind, or loving you enough to go with you, wherever that might be?"

"Kiki."

Mitsuhide, finally, manages to do what he should have done the moment her outburst began. He steps towards her, lifting both his hands to cup her face and raises it so she is looking at him, and he can feel the terror suffocating her; can see it in her eyes that only look at him. Only ever did. She only looked at him that way even before he dared to see her as more as just a friend and partner, before he even realized he _could_. Even before he fell in love with her, fell so hard and deep that he is still falling, years later.

"You are a wonderful mother. Emma knows. I know. And your father does, too. He is just terrified of losing you."

Kiki looks back at him, her eyes wide and fearful, and something in Mitsuhide _shifts_. He almost stumbles forward, draws her in, buries his face in the junction of her neck.

"Does it make me a horrible person, that I want you at my side even if I am walking into battle?" He asks her, hearing his voice crack. "I know you could die, and still there is nobody I want to be with more than with you, right now and at every moment of my life, whatever it might hold. Am I not a horrible person, risking the life of the woman I love most so I can find solace in the face of a war?"

Her arms come up around him.

He tends to forget how strong she is; now she holds him, keeps him from falling apart. She whispers something, a steady string of words; and it takes him a few seconds to realize that it is his name.

 _Mitsuhide._

"Kiki." He answers her, holding her even tighter and then letting go, and she steps back, too. Smooths a wrinkle from his cloak, brushes some dust off his shoulder.

 _Looks at him._

She has only ever looked at him.

"We are coming back."

The conviction in her voice is staggering, and so much like her. Mitsuhide feels his lips twist in a helpless smile in response.

" _We are coming back._ "

It is a vow.

He leans in to kiss her, briefly. Then kneels, forming his hands so she can mount Temperance easily, and swings himself onto Enigma's back seconds later. His men are waiting in front of the gates, in respectful distance to their commander and his wife. Mitsuhide nods at his second-in-command.

"Go."

Kiki at his side, he leaves, and neither of them looks back.

* * *

 **vi.**

All of them return home.


End file.
